


Adam Young and the Wayward Warlock

by malicegeres



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Also Gay Rights and Trans Rights I Promise, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, And Adam is Harry, And Crowley is Kind of Sirius, Baby Switching, Basically Aziraphale's Kind of Dumbledore, I'm Basically Killing Dumbledore And Replacing Him With Aziraphale, I'm Fixing Harry Potter, Look It's Weird Just Go With It, M/M, it's fine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22029478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malicegeres/pseuds/malicegeres
Summary: Aziraphale Fell is a Transfiguration professor suddenly thrust into the role Dumbledore filled during the first Rise of Voldemort. With Dumbledore gone, he and fugitive snake Animagus Crowley must shepherd the Boy Who Lived to adulthood before the Dark Lord can return.Abandoned until JK Rowling either stops being a TERF or dies, whichever comes first
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 38





	Adam Young and the Wayward Warlock

**Author's Note:**

> Look, basically, I was yelling about Dumbledore when I realized (at least the way I see them) Dumbledore and Aziraphale are similar in a lot of ways, except that Dumbledore's doublethink and hypocrisy disguise what a shitty person he is, and Aziraphale's doublethink and hypocrisy disguise that he has much better instincts than Heaven as it exists in the Good Omens universe really allows. So, like, I made him Dumbledore but better but also way less competent, I guess. Also this is my first real Harry Potter fic so that's neat. I'm figuring this out as I go along so enjoy!

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the black python who'd slithered up onto the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. Not that it _could_ blink, mind, but apart from the occasional slow, nervous flick of its tongue it didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the snake moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the snake had been watching, appearing so suddenly and so silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The snake's tail twitched and its pupils narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, portly, and very nervous, judging by the way his dark, tightly-coiled locks had fallen into frizz from too much mussing of it with his perfectly-manicured hands. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His eyes were a rich brown, and they sparkled behind half-moon spectacles resting on his wide nose. This man's name was Aziraphale Fell.

Aziraphale Fell didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the snake, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the snake seemed to put him at ease. He took a deep breath and muttered, "Thank goodness."

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again—the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Deluminator, until it was so dark that if anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Aziraphale slipped the Deluminator back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the snake. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"It's Crowley, isn't it?"

He turned to look at the python, but it was gone. Instead he was staring anxiously at a young man with dark hair and good cheekbones whose eyes were the same slit-pupiled bright yellow as the snake's. He was wearing an ordinary suit, but the cut and the colors were all wrong for Privet Drive or even most places outside of certain corners of London and Manchester. He looked distinctly ruffled.

"So word's got out around the Order, then, has it?" he muttered petulantly. It was quite dark, but if a person squinted they might catch a glimpse of long, sharp eye teeth catching his lip as he talked. He spoke with a lisp, like a child getting used to a cumbersome piece of orthodontia.

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about, dear boy," said Aziraphale. "The process of becoming an Animagus is a difficult one. It's remarkable you managed to recover as much of your humanity as you did."

Crowley inclined his head to the side in acquiescence. "I suppose so. It took a lot of doing keeping the scales off my face, tell you what. I mean, it's _all_ down my back, but at least I'm not showing that off in public too often. Still, it had to be a _snake_. I mean, I like snakes alright. You know, the normal ones you keep as a pet. They're mostly quite friendly, once you get to know them. It's just that we're out here fighting You-Know-Bloody-Who, and now I look like his cousin or something. Not that there isn't probably some connection way back in the line of the 'noble House of Crawley,'" he added with a wry grimace, "but I'd rather not draw attention to it."

"Well, he's gone for now," said Aziraphale. "You can register yourself with the Ministry, and the whole Order can vouch for you if anyone gives you trouble."

"What's left of the Order," Crowley mumbled. He met Aziraphale's eyes. "Is it true about Hogwarts? The raid?"

Aziraphale swallowed the lump in his throat. "Yes," he said. "All of the students survived, thank goodness, but I was the only professor in the Order who made it out. Dumbledore left strict instructions. I am to take over as headmaster, and hold the position however I can."

Crowley let out a low whistle. "I'm sorry. That's a lot to carry." Crowley leaned back and looked up at the sky, bright with stars now that the street was dark. Bright blue and purple sparks streaked across the sky from a celebration far away. "I don't know what he thought would happen, barricading himself in a school like that. It's a miracle none of the kids were killed."

"Don't say that," Aziraphale snapped. "Dumbledore was the bravest and wisest of any of us, and he was the only one You-Know-Who was ever afraid of. He did what he had to."

"Yeah, well, a baby did what he couldn't," he snapped. Then he sighed. "Sorry. It's just been a long day. Lost a lot of good people last night."

Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder. "I understand. We all have." He pursed his lips and looked at met Crowley's eyes as the other wizard brought his eyes back down from the stars. "I've been so busy all day, I've only been able to hear snatches of rumors here and there. This child we're placing here tonight… I heard that he was Thaddeus and Harriet's boy."

Crowley nodded. "Students of yours, weren't they?"

"Yes," he answered quietly. "Two of my very first. Not the most well-behaved, I'll grant you, and Thaddeus in particular had no talent for transfiguration, but they were already inseparable when they were third years."

"I didn't know them that well, but I remember watching them get Sorted my seventh year. They were sweet. Just kids, you know?" He tried to purse his lips and winced as a fang he kept forgetting was there dug into his flesh. Then he coughed once to try and save face. "Listen, about this kid. I've been watching these people all day, and I don't think we can leave him here."

"It was Dumbledore's last request, Crowley."

"Dumbledore clearly never met the Dursleys. I saw the woman shouting at the postwoman, and they have this son they just let scream at them for sweets, and I don't know if you're up on your muggle politics but the man reads the _Daily Mail_. If Warlock Dowling's got to live with muggles, fine, but not these ones. They won't understand him."

Aziraphale looked away. "You don't understand, there's a—" He stopped himself.

Crowley leaned forward. "A what?"

"I'm sorry, it's from Dumbledore's notes. It's top secret."

"A _what_ , professor?" he repeated. "If there's no good reason to leave the baby here, I don't see why one of us can't just do it. Hell, I'll take him if no one else will."

"I can't. If He Who Must Not Be Named were to discover—"

Crowley stood and put a hand on his wand pocket. "I don't _care_ , Fell. Maybe Dumbledore didn't trust the Order with his secrets, but he's gone and so is anyone else who might have known enough to advise him. You can't do this alone."

"Well, why should I tell you? I've only just met you."

"Dumbledore left me in charge of getting the child here. He must have trusted me with his safekeeping. If that's the last order I received from him, I want to see to it that it's carried out right."

Aziraphale looked around, as though searching for approval. Then he stared at Crowley for a long while. He was very tired, and very lost, and he hadn't had a chance to breathe since he'd watched so many of his colleagues die during the Death Eater raid. Here was someone offering advice, and he was particularly primed to take it.

"Very well," he said, "I can tell you the essentials. I received word from a double agent late last night that Harriet Dowling gave her life for the child, which triggered a sacrificial protection spell. That means He Who Must Not Be Named cannot touch him, and because she was his mother by blood, he is further protected so long as he calls the home of his mother's blood home. Her only living relations are the muggles you've been watching all day. If they take young Warlock in willingly, he'll be safe until he can come to Hogwarts."

For the first time that night, Crowley blinked. "Define 'calling someplace home.'"

"Returning to it at least once a year is traditional, and one can never ignore tradition when it comes to magic."

"Alright, so he has to spend Christmas here or something. They don't have to _raise_ him."

Aziraphale frowned. "I don't know. I think Dumbledore must have suspected something like this might happen. He was very clear."

"And he's very dead. Look, we're wizards. If one of these muggles is the sister of a muggleborn, we're not breaking any laws by going in there and roughing them up a bit to let them know they've got to watch their nephew every once in a while. The kid's headed to our rendezvous point at Arabella Figg's place. She's a squib; she can bring him up muggle, and we'll have eyes on him so we know he's alright and getting his annual dose of Dursley."

"I suppose I don't see any harm, especially if the muggles are as bad as you say."

Crowley smiled. "What's left of the Order will be like his godparents, Mrs. Figg included."

"Godparents," Aziraphale repeated. "Well, I'll be damned."

They agreed and shook on it, and the next morning a child with a lightning scar was welcomed with open arms by Mrs. Figg and her cats. Down the street, Vernon Dursley read his mail and swore as he discovered how he would be spending the next sixteen July thirty-firsts.

That afternoon, a warrant was put out for the arrest of Anthony J. Crowley for the murder of Septimus Shadwell. Several members of the Order informed the aurors tasked with his arrest that he was an unregistered Animagus who took the form of a black snake, but by the time they arrived he'd given them the slip.

For weeks, Aziraphale lay awake tossing and turning, wondering how he could have entrusted a secret as big as Harriet's protection spell to a traitor. Reports kept coming in from surviving Order members who told him how Crowley used to talk back to Dumbledore, how he'd question him, how Dumbledore seldom gave him tasks to complete unsupervised. A snake indeed, they whispered among themselves, and Aziraphale nodded and prayed they'd find him soon.

In a way, his prayers were answered one rainy night when he heard a soft rapping against a grate in the floor of his office.

"Fell," came a voice, hoarse as though from disuse.

Aziraphale drew his wand and set his book down. Then, wordlessly, he performed _Incarcerous_ spell. There was a grunt as ropes began to coil around his intruder, and then a thunk as the ropes fell to the floor. He waved his wand again, and a flash of blue light produced another grunt and confirmed to Fell who it was.

" _Carpe retractum_ ," he muttered, too tired to bother with wandless magic again, and both the grate and the man hiding under it clattered onto the stone floor. Aziraphale stepped toward the writhing figure on the floor, his wand drawn. "How did you get into the castle?"

"I was hiding out in the Forbidden Forest," he panted. "Your groundskeeper took a shine to me. Once I was on Hogwarts grounds I came in with some kids coming off the quidditch pitch. Now, come on, send for some Veritaserum and let's get this over with."

He didn't lower his wand. "How do I know you aren't an Occlumens?"

"You're the headmaster. Check my sodding Defense Against the Dark Arts grades if you're so worried. I just need you to trust me, because I'm innocent and there are Dementors everywhere looking for me."

"You knew where the Dowlings were hiding," Aziraphale seethed. "The only other person who knew was Shadwell, and he's disappeared save for a severed finger they found near his home. Would you care to explain that?"

Crowley stared up at him, his yellow eyes wide and desperate. "I don't know about the finger, but if it wasn't me who betrayed them then it was his. Did they find anything except a finger?"

"No," said Aziraphale, doubt beginning to creep in.

"Well, there you have it. What do you think I did, splinched him to death? It'd be a hell of a thing to do in broad daylight, being an unregistered Animagus with my crime written all over my face and all that."

He squinted at him. "How did you get up to Hogwarts undetected?"

Crowley shrugged as best he could with the ropes holding him down. "Muggles are generous people, when you ask them. I hitchhiked up to Inverness and made the rest of the way on—well, belly, once I was away from the muggle roads. I've got an illusion charm in my pocket, but honestly dark glasses do the trick just as easily as long as I don't open my mouth too wide. And even then, they just think it's a costume."

Aziraphale relaxed his grip on his wand. This was the second time this wizard had demonstrated such intimate knowledge of muggles, and several Order members who'd known him had commented how odd it was for Crowley in particular to throw in his lot with wizard supremacists when he'd spent his whole life studying muggles and their ways to stick it to his family. "Fine," he said. He waved his wand, and the ropes disappeared. "You may stay the night. Tomorrow we'll discuss where you're meant to go next until we can clear your name."

"You believe me?"

"Your story makes more sense to me than anything I've been hearing." He leaned against his desk, suddenly exhausted. "Frankly, my dear boy, I can't tell you how relieved I am to know where you are."

Crowley reached into his back pocket, pulled out a metal flask, and took a long swig from it and swallowed. Then he swallowed and offered it to the headmaster. "Drink? I'm told it's the best whisky south of Perth."

Aziraphale shook his head. "I'll drink from my own supply, if that's alright with you."

"Fair enough," he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "It tastes like a blast-ended skrewt drowned in the barrel, anyway."

"A gift from your generous muggles?"

"You know it."

Smiling in spite of himself, Aziraphale waved a hand and a cabinet in the corner of the room unlocked itself. Two bottles of wine floated across the room, one coming to a stop in front of Aziraphale and one in front of Crowley. "I hope this can compare. I'm sorry that I ever doubted you."

Crowley took his glass and lifted it. "Here's to a long, safe, happy life for Warlock in Mrs. Figg's home."

As Crowley and Aziraphale made their toast to the Boy Who Lived, Warlock Dowling was sleeping away. He was not, however, in Mrs. Figg's Home. The night the Dowlings were killed, Crowley had taken Warlock to a muggle hospital where the Order had a plant named Mary Hodges. In that hospital were two additional golden-haired male children, both of whom had suffered injuries that left lightning-shaped marks on their heads and both of whom bore a striking resemblance to the Boy Who Lived. The first of these additional children was a muggleborn wizard, and the other was an ordinary muggle child.How it happened does not matter, but the end result of what transpired in that hospital was that the Boy Who Lived did not leave the hospital in Mary Hodges's arms. He left instead in the arms of a muggle woman named Deirdre Young. The muggleborn child wound up with the other muggle parents, and the muggle child was taken by Mary Hodges to a new life as the child called Warlock Dowling.


End file.
